Baby, I'm a house on fire (and I want to keep burning)
by only-more-love
Summary: Lucy thinks lazy Sunday mornings are the best thing ever, especially when Garcia and Wyatt are around. [Set sometime in the future. Lucy, Garcia, and Wyatt are in a polyfidelitous relationship. Translation: the three of them are romantically involved and are faithful to each other. They also live together.]
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:** This takes place in the same universe as **Your Hands Can Heal; Your Hands Can Bruise** and **I Barely Knew I had Skin Before I Met You**. You DO NOT have to read either of those stories first in order for this one to make sense. All you need to know is that this is set sometime in the future, when Lucy, Garcia, and Wyatt are in a polyfidelitous relationship. Translation: the three of them are romantically involved and are faithful to each other. They also live together.

 **Summary:** Lucy thinks lazy Sunday mornings are the best thing ever.

 **Warning:** Nothing graphic, but don't read if you object to the idea of three adults being romantically involved.

* * *

 **Baby, I'm a house on fire (and I want to keep burning) (1/1)**

Lazy mornings are the best, and Lucy gets far too few of them. So before she falls asleep one Saturday night, she slaps a sleep mask over her eyes. Just once, she'd like to sleep until she feels like waking up, so that's what she does.

Rolling over in the enormous bed she shares with Garcia and Wyatt, first she pulls off her sleep mask, then she throws off the cotton blanket. She stretches her arms, wiggling her fingers. Next come her legs. Her back cracks along the way, and she laughs. Slivers of golden sunlight dance through the closed blinds. Her body feels light and well-rested.

A quick glance at the clock tells her it's after 9:30 on Sunday morning. Garcia and Wyatt might be out for a run. Lucy's stomach grumbles. Or maybe they're picking up fresh bagels and hot, sweet coffee for her. A girl can hope.

The sleep mask did its job faithfully, and she wants to be able to find it again, so she tucks it into the nightstand drawer. Given that she's the last person out of the bed; she should be the one to make it, but she really doesn't feel like it right now. She'll just have to take the inevitable scolding she'll get from both Wyatt and Garcia. A little bickering won't kill any of them.

The bathroom door opens, followed by a cloud of steam. Wyatt steps out, head lowered, eyes focused on his phone. "Work, work, work, work, work, work," he sings along with Rihanna. Lucy's eyes widen, and a giggle bubbles up from somewhere in her chest. She claps a hand over her mouth, but it's too late; he stiffens and glances up.

"Oh, hey, Lucy." He clears his throat. "Didn't realize you were up." The phone still sits in his left hand, while his right hand scratches the back of his neck. He ducks his head. A distinct flush creeps up over his cheeks.

"Clearly," she says, moving toward him, not even trying to hide her smile. "Good morning, Wyatt," she sing-songs. Her lips drag a kiss over his cheek, catching a little on the faint stubble peeking out there.

"Morning." One arm pulls her close against Wyatt's t-shirt covered chest.

"I have to use the bathroom and brush my teeth. Ugh. Morning breath." Her hand squeezes his shoulder. "Don't move," she says, strolling toward the bathroom, "I'll be right back."

When she returns to their bedroom Wyatt's phone is silent, and he stands by the window with the blinds open.

She crooks a finger at him, beckoning. "Come here."

His lips quirk up in that mischief-tinged Wyatt Logan grin that always makes her want to smile back. "Yes, ma'am." He lifts a hand in a mock salute; she puckers her lips and blows him a kiss. He pretends to catch it, then ambles toward her, sunlight catching highlights in his shower-damp hair.

"Nice singing."

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, you weren't supposed to hear that."

"Why not?" She takes his hand, savoring the slide of her fingers through his. "I thought it was cute." Touching Wyatt is easy, and it feels good; she does it as often as possible.

"Shut up."

"No, I'm serious." She eases closer to Wyatt and runs her fingernails over the short hairs on the back of his neck. A shiver moves through him. "Turn the song back on."

"Lucy…" He sighs.

"Do it."

"OK. Fine." He sounds exasperated, but Lucy knows better. His hands lift in a gesture of compliance.

The opening bars of the song start to play. Lucy takes the phone from Wyatt and sets it on the nightstand. "Work, work, work, work, work, work," she sings to him, flashing a tiny smile. He smiles back, eyes warm and soft, and in that moment she loves him. She loves him in all moments.

She tugs him closer by the waistband of his shorts. Feet apart, knees bent, she rocks her hips into Wyatt. The music weaves around them, tension charging the small space between their bodies.

His blue eyes go dark. His lips part. He matches her move for move, hips rolling forward, loose and easy, in a perfect echo of hers.

Wyatt's shirt bunches in her grip, soft fabric covering skin she's touched too many times to count. The steady thud of his heartbeat under her hand makes her own pulse pick up speed. Her eyes slip shut. When his hand skims her hip and claims her lower back, pressing her closer, heat spreads outward from that one point of contact into all her limbs, warm, thick, honey-sweet. The air in the room grows heavier, hotter. She nuzzles his neck, inhaling deeply, absorbing the faint scent of his soap. It's as familiar to her as her own skin, but it sends a shiver down her spine; creates a pulsing ache down low inside her.

The hand on her back slips under her shirt, traveling down and cupping her bottom. (Actually, it's Wyatt's shirt, and she slept in it the night before.)

"I like you in my shirt." His words stir the hair over her temple.

"Hmm…" One of Wyatt's hands strokes the hair back from her forehead; the other squeezes her ass. She's not wearing shorts—just panties—and he palms a lot of bare skin. They move together, trancelike, and each rotation of Lucy's hips has her grinding on Wyatt's thigh, setting fires all over her body. Her breath soughs in and out faster than before. Her eyes open to find him unsuccessfully biting back a self-satisfied grin. Bastard. He knows exactly what he's doing.

She flicks him on the nose.

He chuckles and wraps his arms around her in a hug.

"You have terrible taste in music," says a dry voice behind them.

Lucy gasps and turns around. Garcia stands in the doorway, hip cocked in a casual pose, watching them with a knowing glint in his green eyes.

"Eh. That depends on what you're using the music for." Wyatt drops one hand to her upper back, pressing down gently, and the other to her hip, guiding her to lean forward a bit. She does so, her gaze never leaving Garcia as she turns her hips in a circle, feeling Wyatt rub up against her from behind.

"I go out for one hour"—Garcia clicks his tongue and shakes his head in mock disapproval—"and this is what I come back to."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have left." She arches an eyebrow.

The song ends and Lucy stands up. Wyatt's fingers dip just under the waistband of her underwear, stroking lightly.

Garcia palms the visible bulge in his running shorts, and Lucy licks her lips. He shakes his head, smiling faintly. "I went for a run." He gestures at a patch of sweat on his shirt. "I need to shower." He straightens and walks to them. He places a hand on top of Wyatt's, where it still rests on her skin. "Wait for me," he says, his eyes promising a reward if they obey him. He tugs on her earlobe with his teeth, making goosebumps break out all over her body, then heads to the bathroom.

"We're not making any promises, man."

"Remember, Wyatt, good things come to those who wait," Garcia calls over his shoulder, his tone chastising.

"Yeah, fuck you, too."

Garcia laughs and shuts the bathroom door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Sunlight pours through the bedroom window, warming Lucy's bare legs and turning the dark hairs on Wyatt's forearms red-gold. They lie on their sides on the bed, facing each other. Lucy tucks one hand under her cheek and snuggles into her pillow with a sigh. Garcia's in the shower; she can hear the water pounding. With her eyes closed, she imagines him standing under the spray, water rolling over his skin and catching in his eyelashes, transforming them into jet-colored spikes.

Her eyes open, and Wyatt leans in, bridging the short distance between them. His hand finds a section of her hair that's spilled forward over her shoulder and coils it around his index finger like a spring. He inadvertently brushes her breast—at least she _thinks_ the movement is inadvertent—and she inhales sharply. Beneath the worn cotton of Wyatt's shirt that Lucy's wearing, her nipple tightens. She blames it on the fact that she's been a little on edge, a little keyed-up, ever since they danced.

His gaze dips to her chest, then rises again to meet her eyes. Lucy's cheeks heat at the knowledge that he saw her involuntary response to his casual touch. Wyatt's lips twist in the suggestion of a smile, and she wrinkles her nose at him before slipping her hands into his hair and kissing him.

She does it intending to distract him from her own embarrassment. But her eyes slip shut and their mouths move against each other, sure and unhurried, as if there is nothing else they need to do; nowhere else they need to be. There is only this moment. There is only this kiss. Lucy melts into it by slow degrees, body going languid and liquid. A sigh tumbles out of her, and Wyatt captures it, nibbling on the fullness of her bottom lip. Their breath mingles, and Lucy catches crisp hints of mint that linger from his toothpaste. One of her hands glides from his soft hair to his jaw, and as the terrain she's mapping changes, her palm tingles from the faint scrape of his stubble. The stark contrast makes her shiver.

When Wyatt pulls back, his mouth gleams, wet and glossy, and the smile he turns on her is molasses-slow and twice as sweet, starting with his blue, blue eyes. For a heartbeat Lucy's thoughts turn whimsical; she wishes she was a painter, so she'd know exactly what to label that particular shade. But she's not, so she doesn't. What she does know is they remind her of cornflowers; of cloudless skies; of the ocean when the tides are calm. What she does know is that when he smiles at her like that, with those eyes, he holds her beating heart in his callused hands.

Those eyes soften as they search her face. "I want us to try something, and I want you to say yes without knowing what it is."

Her curiosity and suspicion thus piqued, Lucy laughs and rolls her eyes. "Come on, Wyatt. How can I say yes if I don't know what it is I'm saying yes to?"

"Do you trust me?" he asks, his expression shifting into serious lines.

She smiles. "Yes. Of course. You know I do."

"Thank you, ma'am." He presses a kiss to her forehead, making her stomach flutter. "Then humor me. Just this once." He sits up and holds a hand out to her. "Please."

Lucy stares down at it for a few seconds before nodding and setting her hand firmly in his. He gives it a reassuring squeeze before helping her to her feet and leading her to the bathroom. Garcia left the door closed but unlocked. After Wyatt pulls it open, he motions for Lucy to go first. They step inside and are immediately hit by a wall of warm, humid air and the sound of water pelting the tub—and presumably Garcia.

The bathroom mirror is completely fogged over. Wyatt leans past Lucy and uses a finger to scribble a silly message in the moisture gathered there: Lucy + Wyatt + Garcia, complete with a giant heart around their names. She steps back, eyes tracing over the inscription, a laugh bubbling up when she takes in how "Garcia" has been written in noticeably smaller letters than the other names. She smacks Wyatt on the ass, trying—and failing—to give him a severe look.

"Can't a man have some privacy while showering?" The words float out from the shower.

"Privacy," Wyatt scoffs. "What the hell do you need privacy for, Flynn?" He puts his hands on his hips. "Man, are you jerking off in there?"

Garcia sighs, the exasperated sound loud enough for Lucy to hear over the water. "What does it say about you that you think the only thing one might need privacy for is masturbation?"

"It says I'm honest."

Lucy laughs again, louder this time, and is rewarded with a grin from Wyatt.

"No," Garcia replies in a patient tone, "it says you're a small-minded man with a small imagination."

"Hey! I am in no way small."

Lucy stifles a laugh when she notices how Wyatt has folded his arms over his chest and drawn himself up to his full height. He'd never forgive her if she laughed.

"You're shorter than me," Garcia says, and though Lucy can't see his expression behind the shower curtain, she knows him well enough to guess he's cocked one dark eyebrow and has a smile simmering in his eyes but not on his lips.

For a minute, Wyatt is silent. "OK. Fine. But I make up for it with my—"

Lucy knows exactly where this conversation is heading, so she slaps a hand over Wyatt's mouth.

"As I was saying, a person might also require privacy for thinking," says Garcia.

Lucy moves her hand away from Wyatt's mouth and narrows her eyes at him. _Behave._

"Yeah, you think too much." Wyatt coughs and winks at Lucy. "And don't think I didn't notice you haven't answered the question."

At that, the shower curtain is yanked back, and Garcia sticks his head out, a scowl painting his handsome features. "No, Wyatt, I am _not_ jerking off in here."

"Oh. Too bad. By the way"—Wyatt points downward—" you're dripping all over the floor."

Garcia slams the curtain shut.

Lucy buries her head in Wyatt's neck, clutching his shirt, and laughs until tears come out of her eyes.

"I can hear you laughing at me, Lucy," Garcia says, outrage spiking his voice.

"Oh, sweetheart"—she wipes her eyes—"I'm not laughing _at_ you. I'm laughing _with_ you."

"But I'm not laughing."

"I'm laughing for all of us, Garcia."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** I'm dedicating this chapter to LivingInSmilesIsBetter, who asked for more Garcia/Lucy/Wyatt so sweetly and with such politeness. Sorry for the long wait, my friend, but summer's bad. I hope your surgery goes as smoothly as possible, dear.

Extasiswings, I didn't know that I needed Flynn calling Wyatt "Texas" until you wrote it; now I can't seem to live without it. I borrowed that bit of your genius here. :) I hope you don't mind. xo

To the anonymous reader who said this: "What a gross and perverted story!" I say, "Thanks for sharing your thoughts with me; I'm sorry this story isn't to your taste. Hopefully, you'll find something you like out of all the fanfiction being written and posted on the 'net for free. Also, one person's 'gross and perverted story' is another person's love story."

* * *

Unlike before, when they began as teammates, now Lucy doesn't have to hold back. Doesn't have to turn away from Wyatt's eyes and pretend she doesn't see the heat sparking there. Doesn't have to tighten her hands into fists to resist reaching for him. There's no reason not to touch Wyatt and no reason not to be touched by him, whenever the urge strikes them, and for whatever reason. Pleasure. Comfort. Warmth. Reassurance. These are all things Lucy can and has drawn from his skin—and Garcia's.

Because home isn't an abstract concept; it isn't a specific geography or dwelling either. In spite of their faults, in spite of their wounds, in spite of their knife-sharp edges and how close to bone they can cut, home is these two men.

Amusement sketches fault lines fanning out from the corners of Wyatt's ocean eyes, and on impulse Lucy curls both arms around the slim circumference of his waist and leans into him, squeezing lightly, her cheek snuggled against the pinprick stubble on his, and sighs, letting every niggling worry in her mind, every lingering to-do list item, drift away like a balloon caught and lofted by a spring breeze.

"What was that for?" Wyatt says in a murmur near her ear, his voice brilliant with affection and the remnants of laughter.

"No reason." Arms still looped around his waist, Lucy shrugs and leans back so she can see his face and every micro expression that slides across it. "I like you." She lets her lips edge into a smile.

Wyatt's mouth twitches into an answering half-smile that deepens the lines around his eyes and reminds her why they'd entered the bathroom in the first place. "I like you, too, Luce." His teeth gleam white and straight-edged as they catch on the pink plush of his bottom lip, snaring her attention. " A lot." His hand captures hers; he slips a kiss across the top, making her stomach do a slow flip. "Will you be my girl, babydoll?" he asks, the sincerity in his expression belied by the mischief lurking in his eyes.

In response to the use of that endearment from their shared past, Lucy raises an eyebrow and smirks. "Isn't it a little late in the game to be asking me that, sweetheart?"

"Better late than never, right?'

Abruptly the shower shuts off, the pipes giving a soft gurgle.

Her index finger glides over the dip above his upper lip. "That depends. You'd have to share me, though." Lucy winks and tilts her head toward the shower, sending him a silent message; Wyatt responds with a nod and a grin.

* * *

Wyatt plasters a confused expression on his face and scratches his chin. "Share you?" he replies, pitching his voice just a touch louder because he knows full well that Garcia can hear everything they're saying now that running water isn't muffling their voices. "With who?"

Lucy's face is the picture of wide-eyed innocence. "With Garcia Flynn, of course."

"What?" Wyatt says, infusing the word with a world of disbelief and outrage. Then he goes in for the kill: "That crotchety old fucker?"

Exactly no one is surprised when the gray shower curtain jerks back on its rod and a 6'4" man with water beaded on his skin, and dark hair that's sticking up in multiple directions as if it's only just been roughly toweled steps out of the tub; his presence in the small bathroom shrinks the surrounding space. Around his waist he wraps a light blue towel, tucking an end in above his hip to secure it. A scowl paints his angular features; Wyatt can practically see a thundercloud, rain-heavy and shaded black, looming over his head. A single drop of water sits on Garcia's lower lip: Wyatt's —embarrassingly grateful he can't read his mind and know how badly he wants to suck it off.

"Old? I'll show you old," he says in a near growl, stalking toward Wyatt in a move that's all shoulder and swagger. Though he's never going to admit it out loud, mostly because Flynn's already a cocky motherfucker, it's ten kinds of hot—even, or maybe especially, when you add in the grumpy, downturned mouth. Wyatt laughs in triumph, but only in the echoing space of his own mind, where no one else can hear it.

A disgruntled, grouchy Garcia Flynn sits at the number two spot of Wyatt's top five favorite Garcias. (Aggravating him continues to be one of Wyatt's favorite hobbies. What can he say? He has fun lighting the fuse and waiting for it to blow. He suspects it goes both ways. While some things change, others...don't.)

Number one? Smiling Garcia. (Fine, Wyatt will admit that OK, _maybe_ he's grown a tad sentimental over the years. If he were to voice that thought, Lucy would probably give him one of those twinkly-eyed looks that are kind of her specialty—right before laughing her ass off and telling him he's always been a ridiculous sap. Having killed people and lost people and lived through it all, Wyatt knows there are far worse things in the world than loving his partners.)

"I notice you're not objecting to the 'crotchety' part," he replies, not resisting when Garcia reaches behind him, opens the bathroom door, plants his palms on his chest, and shoves him through the doorway. He stumbles a bit, but Garcia's big hands shoot out and catch him by the shoulders before he can fall.

"I prefer another 'C' word."

The grin Wyatt aims at Garcia is calculated deviltry. "Like what—'cocksucker'?" Grin widening, he tips his head to look at Lucy around Garcia's shoulder and gauge her reaction.

She just shakes her head and folds her hand over her eyes.

Garcia lets out a bark of laughter. "How did you read my mind, _moj štene_?" he shoots back, the words barbed with sarcasm. He shakes his head. "Try 'complex,'" he adds, amusement softening the serrated edges of his voice. Flynn takes Wyatt's shirt in both hands and draws it up several inches. "Lift your arms, " he says, his tone one of command.

Wyatt's spent too many years in the army not to react to that tone with an instinctive _Yes, sir._ Luckily, though, he catches himself just in time and swallows the words before they can topple out of his mouth. "No way. You just called me your puppy."

"Ah, you remember what _moj štene_ means." Garcia's voice carries a lilt of surprise—and approval.

"Of course I remember." Wyatt concentrates on looking offended, pleased when Lucy's laugh rolls through the room. "What kind of moron do you take me for? Never mind." He waves his hand dismissively. "Don't answer that."

Flynn runs his thumb over Wyatt's lips, then yelps when Wyatt nips at it. With pursed lips and a narrow-eyed glance at him, Garcia turns his attention back to Wyatt's shirt, tugging at it again. "Up and off."

"Nope. Not helping after you just called me your dog."

Garcia leans down to counter the height difference between them and presses a kiss to Wyatt's cheek. Then, as if he expects one wholesome, G-rated kiss is all it takes to get back on Wyatt's good side, he straightens up again and says, "It was an endearment."

Wyatt isn't that easy to buy off. OK, fine, maybe he is, but Flynn doesn't need to know that. "You need to find a better one."

Flynn's eyes are full of mock reproach. "So sensitive, my blue-eyed Texan." The "my" makes Wyatt's stomach do a funny little swoop. "Well, if you won't help me, I suppose I'll just have to"—his lips flatten into a line as he grasps Wyatt's shirt and stretches and pulls it between his hands—"do it myself." The navy blue cotton tears up the middle and Garcia keeps pulling until it rips all the way.

"Hey! Did you have to Hulk out on me?" Wyatt scowls. "I loved that shirt. I've had it for years. It was the perfect level of softness."

Eyes locked on Wyatt's, Garcia balls up the shirt and then tosses it; it sails over his shoulder and lands in a sad heap on the carpet. "I suppose I should be sorry."

"But you're not."

Garcia shrugs but doesn't argue the point, his expression smooth and utterly unapologetic. "So I'll buy you another one." A smirk bends his lips: it makes Wyatt want to lick him all over—and punch him, though not necessarily in that order. Fine. In exactly that order. "Not bad for a 'crotchety old fucker,' eh?"

Wyatt rolls his eyes when Garcia pulls him flush up against his damp body, arms wrapped snug around his waist. "Listen, buddy," he complains, "you're getting me all wet."

With a knowing smile, Garcia crowds him back toward the bed with his body. "Of course I am," he says, the sentence sizzling with innuendo. When the backs of Wyatt's legs hit the bed, Garcia gives him a slight push.

Wyatt lets himself fall onto his back next to Lucy and tucks his folded his arms under his head. Garcia follows right after, the long, lean length of his body rising up over Wyatt on the bed, his bent knees bracketing his thighs. During those few seconds, the towel hanging around Garcia's waist falls off, landing on Wyatt and revealing enough to swiftly banish any doubts he might have about exactly how much Garcia's enjoying this little game.

Sitting up a bit, Wyatt shoves aside the discarded and damp towel, then strokes his fingers through the springy hair at Garcia's groin. He tugs, but lightly, not intending to cause any pain. "See, look at all that gray, old man," he says, pretending to turn the observation into a complaint.

Garcia's gaze flicks downward. "Yes, Texas," he says, catching Wyatt's hand and holding it against his cock, which is still warm from his shower and half-hard already. "Look at all that."

"Meh. Whatever." Tempting as it is to explore with his fingers and see how much effort it will take to transform half-hard into fully, Wyatt pulls his hand away and pretends to stifle a yawn, only to find himself, a heartbeat later, pinned between their bed and a 200 lb. hard place. If he wanted to, Wyatt could muscle (or tickle, since he knows Garcia's stomach is wickedly sensitive) his way out of his current position, but given that it's actually a pretty pleasant place to be, he just lies back and decides to see where the moment takes them. Garcia's body, all of it, presses to Wyatt's, and the hair on his chest—a not insignificant amount of it threaded through with silver—rubs both soft and wiry, as contradictory as the man it belongs to, against his skin. The delicious friction makes Wyatt ticklish, forcing him to squirm against the cool bed sheets; he can't help it.

Weight braced on his elbows, Garcia's gaze walks the paths of Wyatt's face, the smallest of smiles flickering around the borders of his mouth. One blink and it appears to vanish. But Wyatt knows better: it lingers in his eyes.

Once upon a time Wyatt studied that face and decided it was a harsh one because of its blunt planes and corners and those slender lips he swore never smiled. But he'd learned his lesson: sometimes things aren't (only) what they seem. Sometimes you had to dig and claw—until earth, rich, loamy, and dark, settled into the spaces under the crescents of your fingernails—before you got at the truth of something. At the truth of some _one_.

Gravity, well, she's stubborn and inexorable, even against a man like Garcia Flynn, who is almost a force of nature himself. So she pulls insistently on Garcia's inky hair, dropping it over his forehead; Wyatt nudges it back purely for the pleasure of watching it fall again. It makes him feel content in a way he can't explain. For just a moment, Garcia cants his head to the side, leaning into the touch and watching him through the charcoal smudge of his eyelashes, with eyes that Wyatt can now say with confidence have gone a little soft. With what? Arousal? Love? But his expression alters soon after, and wariness creeps over Wyatt as he wonders what comes next.

Exercising a fair amount of self-control, Wyatt barely bites back a whimper when Garcia moves down, and with the unerring accuracy born of many hours spent exploring his body, finds that spot on his neck with his lips, teeth, and tongue—the one that sends a shock of sensation skittering down his spine to his cock. As it is, his mouth falls open and his back arches. His hands tunnel into Garcia's hair like they belong there, the strands cool, wet, and slippery to his touch, and cup the back of his head to keep him in place. _Think calm, cool, and indifferent, Wyatt._ Yeah, he's indifferent. (His dick says otherwise.)

Bastard that he is, Flynn chuckles, breath warm against Wyatt's skin. Even though his laughter is smoky with smugness and self-satisfaction, the sound of it slides over Wyatt like velvet rubbed the wrong way. It's good. Really good. Sitting-in-a-puddle-of-sunshine-with-your-eyes-closed-and-absorbing-the-warmth-and-light-through-your-skin good. Because of how Garcia's lying over him, Wyatt feels his laughter where their bodies touch. Since it means Flynn's happy and not locked in that shadowy place in his head he goes to sometimes to be Broody McBrooderson, Wyatt can't find it in himself to mind all that much that he's the source of his lover's amusement.

"Maybe I should go make some popcorn," Lucy's voice calls. Wyatt turns his head to look at her at the same time Garcia climbs off him. Lucy's stretched out on her stomach with her chin propped on her hand, beaming a smile at them both. Her legs bend at the knees and swing idly behind her.

He clears his throat. "Yeah. Sorry about that, babe; I got distracted."

She winks at him, her brown eyes dancing. "That's OK. I can see why."

"Cover your ears, Luce," Wyatt says, "I need to talk to Flynn."

Lucy sticks out her tongue at him. "Guys, I don't like secrets."

Wyatt winks at Flynn before turning back to Lucy with what he hopes is an innocent smile.

* * *

They're back in the bathroom. "Guys, I don't know if I can do this," Lucy says, her voice thin, reedy, and uncertain in a way she dislikes intensely. She's faced Rittenhouse; looking at herself shouldn't be terrifying next to that. (Still: it is.)

"You told me you trust me, remember?" Wyatt asks. "Do you?"

She sighs and frowns at her bare feet, which are naked, pale, vaguely forlorn against the blue bathroom rug. The chips in her light pink nail polish loom large. "Yeah, I do."

Garcia, who stands at her side, sets a finger under her chin and gently tilts her face up until she's looking directly at Wyatt. Wyatt smiles, and the familiar warmth in his eyes reassures Lucy, stilling the nervous fluttering in her belly. "So trust me," Wyatt says.

With a nod, Lucy straightens her shoulders and vows to put herself in his hands. In their hands.

"Close your eyes," Garcia says, voice low as his fingers slip softly over her brows and eyelids. "That's good, Lucy." The approving rasp of his voice as her eyes drift closed starts a gentle glow inside her. "Very good."

With her vision obstructed, her other senses amplify. A rustle of fabric suggests Wyatt's removed his shorts, but she's not certain if that's what's happened. Hands—probably Garcia's judging by their faint roughness—stroke over and across her hips, summoning goosebumps, before they hook in her panties and coax them, slow and deliberate in a way that heightens everything, down over the sweep of her thighs, over the stony rise of her knees, and over her shins, until the cloth snags around her ankles. A pop sounds, like the crack of a joint, maybe. It makes Lucy want to smile, so she does. The air stirs over her bare legs like someone's moved, and fingers encircle one of her ankles.

"Lift your feet, Luce." This time it's Wyatt talking. Lucy does as asked, without any hesitation, raising one foot and then the other until she stands unclothed from the waist down before the men who are her lodestones. She shivers once, but it fades quickly when a circle smooths over the back of her leg.

A scarce handful of seconds tick by before someone draws Wyatt's shirt up over her stomach, brushing her nipples as he guides it first over her chest and then over her arms and head. Suddenly exposed to the lukewarm air, her nipples peak.

The sound of a quick indrawn breath, not hers. A hot flush races over her cheeks. Acting on instinct, she covers her breasts—

 _Too small, too lopsided, and my nipples are too big,_ her mind supplies, oh-so-helpfully.

"Please don't," Garcia murmurs by Lucy's ear, ruffling her hair with his breath and sensitizing every part of her. The timbre of his voice wants to seduce her, and a huge part of her wants to let it."Don't hide from us," he adds, and her heart constricts.

She knows a moment of shame then because she doesn't want to hide from them, not really, and she certainly doesn't want to be a coward, and honestly, it's not like they haven't seen it all before anyway, but she's naked and there's a mirror— _Oh god, there's a mirror_ —and there's Derek Griffin from freshman year eyeing her from his bed with his "You'd be so fucking hot if your boobs were bigger; would you ever consider a boob job?"

Lucy's eyes flutter open to Garcia clasping her hand, drawing it away from her breast. His mouth alights on the inside of her wrist, trailing over the thin, sensitive skin there, and she sighs, almost forgetting the whirlwind of her own tangled and insecure thoughts.

Can he feel the swift tattoo of her pulse? She knows he can't feel the answering beat between her legs, though perhaps he knows her well enough to suspect it, but _she's_ hyper aware of it. Aware of the throb and the wetness starting to gather there like the inevitability of the tide when the moon crooks her slender finger and beckons.

Wyatt kisses her then. His mouth rubs back and forth against hers, the pressure delicate and easy, neither demanding nor giving too much. At the same time, wet heat engulfs Lucy's hand; Garcia draws several of her fingers into his mouth and alternates between sucking on them and dragging his teeth along their length. It's impossible to decide which she likes more: both make her squeeze her thighs together to get a modicum of relief from the ache that's taken root there.

Wyatt's restraint sets Lucy on fire; she nibbles at him until he makes a low noise in his throat. That sound, she likes it. It licks hot at her skin. She wants an encore. No, she _needs_ one, so she nips his lower lip—over and over. Finally, finally, she coaxes a groan from him. Smiling against his mouth, she slows the kiss.

With a hand wound through her hair, Wyatt whispers his tongue along the borders of her lips, making them tingle, and then against the seam between them. She thinks he wants her to open her mouth; she thinks he wants her tongue. But as soon as those thoughts bubble to the topmost level of her desire-drunk mind, he draws back and moves aside. "Look in the mirror," he says. "Look at yourself, Lucy."

His voice is low—hypnotic. It floats through Lucy, drifting on a wispy current of air like a leaf fallen from a tree until it eventually settles low low low inside her. _Don't look._ She looks anyway, but only at her face. A glance at the mirror's silvered surface reveals a woman with a profusion of love-tangled waves twisting around her face.

"What do you see?" Garcia asks.

"Brown… Brown, wavy hair." Not a stranger's voice; it's hers, but breathless with—

Wyatt traces the pads of his fingers over the arc of her cheek; Lucy notes the chaotic splash of color there. It echoes the chaos inside her. "What else?" Wyatt asks.

— _Want_. "Um. Her—" She can be brave, right? The man at her back is stable. Warm. Present if she wants him but not obtrusive. In a word: safe. Ironic, really, given how dangerous she once found him. He stands so close Lucy can sense every breath he takes and releases as his chest rises and falls. He stands so close she can feel the hard, thick press of him against her. She coughs to clear her throat of the smoke and gravel coating it. "I mean, _my_ cheeks are red. They're flushed."

"Why do you think that is?" Garcia's voice rubs like sandpaper, but when he leans down from behind her, smooths her hair aside, and kisses the join of her neck and shoulder, his mouth is careful...and soft. So soft she shudders and her eyes drop closed once again. "No," he says against her skin, "open your eyes. Tell me why you're flushed."

Lucy's lids sit heavy over her eyes; she has to struggle to open them again, but she does. A moan tumbles from her lips when Garcia mouths at her ear. Her gaze flickers to the side, arrested by the sight of Wyatt next to them, palm flat against his cock. He's not doing anything. Not really. There's only a slight flex of the tendons in his hand to hint that he's squeezed. But even that small suggestion of motion is enough to make Lucy mar her lip with her teeth.

"Tell me," Garcia repeats. Their eyes meet in the mirror, and Lucy has to blink and tell herself to focus because for a second she can't recall what it is they're talking about. There's a heady languor stealing over her: slow, steady, irrefutable. She doesn't answer.

But Flynn has learned to be patient; he can play the long game, and Lucy knows he'll wait out her silence as long he needs to.

Summoning her courage—after all, this is Wyatt and Garcia, and she loves them and this isn't their first time together and dammit, she's an adult—she says, looking directly at Flynn in the mirror, "Because I'm turned on."

Lucy's words hit with the impact of a pebble skipped across the surface of a lake. Neither Wyatt nor Flynn speaks, but they share a telling glance, communicating without words, and there's approval and affection in their faces when they focus their attention back on her.

It's not exactly that she's afraid of her own desire, or even that she's embarrassed to name it. She's not. But there's a difference between talking during sex and this—naming and defining her own average, imperfect body's response when the proof of it is writ so clear in the mirror in front of her. (In front of them all.)

"Was that so hard to say?" Wyatt says, and both his expression and his voice are free of all mockery and judgment.

Though he seems to want a response, the words don't come easily just now, so she merely smiles in reply and gives thanks when neither he nor Garcia press the issue.

Garcia's arms wrap around her from behind, cradling her against his chest. His hands skim through the dark hair above her sex before they sweep over the curve of her stomach and come to a stop just beneath her breasts. "Come here, Texas." He motions Wyatt closer with one finger.

Wyatt's blue eyes narrow, but Lucy can tell from the slight upward tick of his mouth that he's not-so-secretly pleased by this new nickname. She thinks she likes it, too. "Yes?" he asks.

"Kiss her."

Their mouths just meet before they are pushed apart.

A sigh breaks from Garcia. "Do I have to spell out everything, Logan?" he says, the words crackling with low-level irritation.

"Dude. Use your words. I'm not a mind reader.

"That much is obvious," says Garcia, his tone snarky and dry enough that Wyatt flicks him in the shoulder. Sighing again, Flynn curls one hand around the back of Wyatt's head and urges it forward and down. "Kiss. Her. Breasts." Each word is spoken with exaggerated clarity, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

"Gladly." One side of Wyatt's mouth quirks in a smirk. "All you had to do was ask."

Lucy laughs. "You're both idiots, you know that, right?"

Wyatt stops and reverses, grinning. "We know." He tweaks her earlobe and she can't resist sticking her tongue out and wiggling it at him. "Relax, Luce"—he wags his eyebrows at her—"I'm getting to it."

A blush flames hot in her cheeks. Garcia smothers a laugh in her hair, and Lucy elbows him hard enough to elicit a muffled grunt.

"You're a violent woman, Lucy," he finally says, face lit by a wide smile she watches in the mirror.

"Not violent—passionate," she retorts.

His eyebrow arches, his smile deepening at the same time. "Indeed." Gently, he squeezes her breasts, thumbing their tips—once, twice, thrice—until she gasps. He cups and raises both her breasts, pushing them together, a pagan offering, and utters a single word: "Wyatt."

That's all Flynn has to say before Wyatt dips his head, nuzzling her chest, and sucks one of her nipples into the heat of his mouth. Her thoughts start to melt into a thick haze again as her body does the same, but she's dimly aware of Garcia still standing behind her—solid and hot—but taking his hands from her breasts and sinking them into Wyatt's hair.

Wyatt licks and sucks her nipples, lavishing beautiful, agonizing attention on both her breasts until she's nothing but a mass of sensations. She glances down and sees his eyes are shut tight, his lashes a dark fan above his cheeks as he calls forth a dull ache from deep inside her. Garcia's long-boned fingers sift through Wyatt's hair over and over, and he murmurs into Lucy's ear filthy, loving, gorgeous words, some in a language she doesn't understand, all broken up by her own harsh pants and jagged moans.

When Wyatt finally releases her nipple from his mouth with an audible, nearly obscene pop, Lucy sighs and pets his hair, her fingers all jumbled up with Flynn's. Her blood still thrums thick, sweet, and hot in her veins when he steps back, eyes dark and mouth a wet smear. "You're beautiful, Luce."

She just makes a little face and shakes her head.

"No," he says, insistent, "really, you are." He moves to stand beside her. "Look at your tits." He reaches out and grazes a finger over her nipple. At her raised eyebrow, he quickly amends his words. "Excuse me, ma'am. Your breasts." His expression is not at all abashed, so she wrinkles her nose. Wyatt smiles, shoulders rising in an exaggerated shrug. "What? I say it with a lot of love and respect."

"Coarse language aside," Garcia says, "Wyatt's correct; you—"

"Fuck you," Wyatt says, interrupting Flynn. "You are such a suck-up. 'Coarse language,' my nuts." He makes an obscene gesture that wrenches a laugh from Lucy—a laugh that, embarrassingly enough, transmutes into a snort. "Like you never use 'coarse language.'" The last sentence is punctuated with a scowl.

Hands on his hips, Flynn heaves a sigh so deep it sounds like it's been dredged from the depths of his soul, and glances at the ceiling, presumably searching there for patience. He squints and twists his lip between his teeth. "I never said I didn't, Logan."

The two men glare at each other, blue eyes clashing with green, but the effect is nullified by the fact that they're completely naked. Trying not to smile, Lucy pats them both on the arm. "There there, boys."

Eyes twinkling, Wyatt hauls her up against him and taps her on her bare ass. "Luce," he says in a stage whisper, "don't think I didn't hear you snort just now."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," she replies, all primness and propriety. She has to retain some dignity.

His eyebrow arches in a pitch-perfect imitation of Flynn.

"What? I coughed," she says. "That's all."

Still smiling, Wyatt chucks her under the chin and gives her cheek a smacking kiss. "You keep telling yourself that, brown eyes."


End file.
